Sir Percy's Spy
by SherlockianGirl
Summary: When Lord Hastings is captured, Percy has no choice but to brave the bloody streets of Paris to rescue his fellow League member. But Chauvelin hasn't forgotten that meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel and weaves about him a most cunning trap...
1. Captured

_**I started writing this about 8 months ago and took it down for a time, unsure of whether I wanted to continue it. But I've decided to try again, here with a revised version and hopefully a better one at that. Here's the short intro to start it all.**_

_**(La, I do not own anything Scarlet Pimpernel, as this is a humble work using the creation of the wonderful Baroness)  
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**_The ornate hallway clock bellowed two deep notes, marking the second hour of the dreary May afternoon. The chiming echoes reached the study down the passage, but did not stir the figure sprawled across one of the many fine sofas within. Rain bespattered the windows of the great mansion as the spring storm continued to drench the English countryside. The dull hum of falling raindrops soon blanketed the house with a sleepy calm as a lazy fog rolled in across the gardens.

The sound of approaching horses was nearly lost in a sudden burst of thunder, rolling in rhythm to the faint sound of hooves pounding against the gravel road. As the thunder faded, the frantic galloping grew nearer, jarring the peaceful stupor that hung about the house. A minute passed and two dripping horses skidded to a noisome halt outside the front portico. Two well-dressed men, one somewhat taller than the other, leapt from their mounts and strode to the heavy front door. After the slightest pause, they entered without ceremony, latching the door quietly behind them.

The taller man glanced hastily around the grand foyer. "He may not be back yet."

His companion tossed aside his soaked riding coat nervously. "Where else could he be in such a downpour, Andrew?"

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes frowned. "His favorite carriage is missing. Perhaps he is detained in town?"

His friend smiled grimly. "Ah yes, I'm sure he waited for such blessed weather to visit his tailors."

Sir Andrew's frown deepened as his eyes continued to peruse the empty house. "Perhaps urgent business called him away." His gaze flicked to the stairs, then back to his companion. "Tony, the study. Perhaps he left a note…"

Lord Antony Dewhurst nodded and both men leapt up the richly carpeted stairs to the second floor, wherein they turned sharply to the left and down a passageway. Lord Tony knocked firmly on the door to the study, and, upon receiving no answer, swung it noiselessly open.

"Ah, late again," a sleepy voice drawled from the corner of the room. The two gentlemen started at the sudden break in silence, but rushed quickly across the threshold and toward the source of the familiar voice.

They halted before the velvet sofa, gazing down with astonishment at the man stretched across it. Sir Andrew stepped forward. "Percy! What the devil are you doing in here, and asleep at that?"

A lazy smile played at the corners of Sir Percy's mouth, his blue eyes sparking with amusement. "Lud, Andrew, would you expect me to be out in this dreadful weather? I'm afraid 'twas a day best spent inside. Demmed spring." He glanced over at the soaked gentlemen and laughed. "But I see you've been out enjoying it."

Both men managed a grim smile. On another day, they would have heartily joined in the joke, but the events of the past few hours had deadened them to any amusing trifle. Their news would not please their leader any more than it did them.

But Percy had closed his eyes again, and had not caught his friends' despairing glances. He continued to prattle on unaffectedly, "But I suppose the wet will be the fashion of ball, if this rain keeps up tonight. T'would be a demmed shame if-"

"Percy, please!" Sir Andrew interrupted, unable to contain himself any longer.

Percy's eyes shot open at the exasperated tone of his friend, the lazy smile fading from his handsome face. He sat up slowly, his blue eyes clouded with concern. "What is it, man?"

Sir Andrew threw a fearful look at Lord Tony, who nodded solemnly. Sir Andrew sighed. "Hastings. He was captured this morning two leagues outside of Paris."

Percy's eyes glinted. "What was he doing over there?" he inquired coldly.


	2. Unfortunate Friend

With a quick glance at Sir Andrew, Lord Tony withdrew a battered letter from his coat pocket and wordlessly held it out to his leader. Percy calmly took the paper from his companion and silently read its contents.

Ffoulkes, already keen to the emotions of his good friend, noted the ever so slight tightening of Blakeney's mouth, a hardening of his steely blue eyes, and an almost imperceptible setting of his jaw. Sir Percy was not the sort of man to fly about in wild passions even amidst his greatest trials, and would not do so now.

"When did you receive this?" Percy asked, emotionless.

"Just this morning, about an hour ago. Sir Andrew and I were about town and were stopped by a simple courier; we did not get his name or business. How he knew to find us, God only knows." Tony paused, trying to read his leader's reaction.

The chief's face seemed carved of stone, with no sign of the carefree mirth that had been there but minutes ago. His eyes seemed to bore into the letter as if he were striving to memorize every word, every letter of that fateful note. When he looked up, a strange light burned in his eyes. Ffoulkes blinked, surprised by the sudden intensity in Percy's gaze. It seemed almost malicious.

"Gentlemen, do you know who wrote this?" Percy's voice quavered slightly from sheer restraint of some violent emotion.

Ffoulkes frowned. "Surely not, Percy. It wasn't signed and we had no way of knowing where the courier came-"

Blakeney gave a rueful laugh as he held out the worn paper. "Ah, but surely we know his hand by now?"

And now the worst for Lord Hastings seemed realized, even as Ffoulkes hissed, "Chauvelin."

Percy's icy gaze flicked from Sir Andrew to Lord Tony. "You are aware of my strict orders that he stay in London this week. Did he inform you of his plans to leave?"

Tony shook his head. "Of course not. We would have stopped him if-"

"There would be no stopping him if his mission was more important than the League's."

Ffoulkes' frown deepened. "Percy, you couldn't possibly believe that Hastings betrayed us."

"What else is there to believe about the matter, Andrew? Disobedience _is_ betrayal to the League."

The three gentlemen fell silent, lost in their own dark thoughts. What had become of Hastings? Surely he could not possess the audacity to disregard orders, orders from the man they all loved and revered. What business had he in France? And why his secrecy amongst those who kept the greatest secret of all? And so the questions droned on in their thoughts, without an answer to relieve their growing anxiety. Outside, the sleepy rain continued to pelt the windows and walkways, unaware of the sudden danger that seemed to permeate the empty house.

Blakeney's voice broke the heavy silence. "How many of the League know of this?"

"None, Percy," came Ffoulkes' reply.

"Pray, keep this to yourselves. We cannot afford anyone's rash attempts at rescuing our unfortunate friend."

Lord Tony sighed, exasperated. "What are we to do then, Percy? For God's sake, give us something to do!"

"Lud, man, there will be plenty to do!" Sir Percy began to fiddle with his gold eye lense, tapping it pensively against his chin. "Our friend Chauvelin unfortunately knows too much, but will not show himself in England at present. Not just yet. His spies most likely patrol our streets and grand parties, eager to catch a glimpse of one of us, to see and hear everything." He let the eye lense hang back down around his neck, fixing his companions with an eager, earnest gaze. "For heaven's sake, do nothing imprudent. We will be watched even more closely, now that Chauvelin has successfully delivered his news. Say nothing of this matter to anyone, as you know quite well."

Tony shifted restlessly before dropping into a cushioned chair opposite his leader. Ffoulkes took another seat and faced his leader eagerly. "But Percy, you plan on rescuing the fellow, of course?"

His friend's manner suddenly softened, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Of course, my dear fellow. Couldn't think of a more exciting venture at present." His smile widened. "And to see our dear friend Chauvelin will be such an occasion, I shan't pass it up for the world."

Ffoulkes and Lord Tony glanced at each other in bewilderment. Ffoulkes asked tentatively, "You are not angered by this?"

"Hastings will answer to me, as I am sure he has his reasons. All may not be what it seems." Sir Percy laughed suddenly. "Odd's life, but my fury is all for our dear Chauvelin, who will know of it soon enough." A spark of mischief danced in Percy's eyes. "We shall show our beloved French ambassador our gratitude for his schemes, when the chance arises."


	3. The Last Correspondence

Citizen Chauvelin fiddled aimlessly with the blank sheet of paper in his hands. He glanced down at it with a satisfied smirk, then turned his gaze to the window of his small office. His smile broadened at the distant commotion of the crowd cheering the end of another _aristo_. The executions had continued lately without interference, without so much as a whisper of hope amongst the inhabitants of the temple prison.

But there was always that damned Englishman. Chauvelin gritted his teeth at the thought of that impertinent fop, that brilliant meddler who had so deftly eluded him in Calais. His attention suddenly snapped back to the paper he was unconsciously crushing in his tightening fist. He released it, the wicked smile creeping back to his lips. He would make Sir Percy Blakeney suffer for his meddling in the affairs of others. Chauvelin fingered the edges of the parchment thoughtfully. Blakeney would not refuse to obey this, he could not. And when he stepped foot onto the free soil of France, he would find himself thrown in the deepest cell of the temple prison, there to share the fate of those he had endeavored to save.

****

Chauvelin peered into the dark cell, squinting to make out the huddled figure in the waning light of the barred window. He nodded to the jailer who immediately shoved a key into the rusted lock and hastily unbolted it. He pulled the heavy door ajar as Chauvelin slipped in, his black hat shadowing his smiling face.

In the corner of the dank room lay the unfortunate man, his head leaned against the rough stone wall. He was asleep in some fitful dream, a grimace on his pale, troubled face. Chauvelin studied the sleeping figure for a brief moment, his mind awhirl with anticipation. Suddenly he kicked the prisoner's side with a sharp, "Get up, man!"

The man groaned, then blinked as he beheld the black-clad figure before him. He stiffened perceptibly, and shrunk slightly further into the corner, his eyes fixed rigidly on his captor.

Chauvelin uttered a raspy laugh. "Ah, and how are you this evening, Lord Hastings?" He smirked. "I'm terribly sorry to have interrupted your sleep."

Hastings glared up at the Frenchman but remained silent.

"Come, now, we have much to talk about, you and I." Chauvelin's eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Your cooperation might serve you well, Hastings."

"You'd give me a slower trip to the guillotine, I suppose?" Hastings scoffed. "More time to ponder the consequences of my choices, is that it?"

"Hardly, man. The faster your head is beneath that blade, the more merciful your punishment, don't you think?

"Haven't you a third option?"

"No." Chauvelin's face was darkly earnest. "Choose to wait or not to, it matters little. But you _will_ aid me."

Hastings shifted slightly, suddenly uneasy. He cleared his throat. "Ah, monsieur, and how is that?"

Chauvelin withdrew a blank, slightly crumpled sheet of paper from beneath his cloak. "Write to him," he said simply.

"Him?"

"Your infamous leader," snarled the French ambassador. "I'm sure you have much to tell him."

Hastings suddenly laughed, incredulous. "You want me to write? To the Scarlet Pimpernel? So that I may plot my escape after all?"

A small smile touched Chauvelin's lips. "Oh no, my friend. So that he may join you shortly."

Hastings stiffened, endeavoring to hide the fear that suddenly gripped him. The ambassador's wicked smile unsettled Hastings, who had seen many a more gruesome sight in his ventures, yet now felt apprehension at the mere expression. Chauvelin possessed a ruthless cunning, a deadly hound in pursuit of his bitterest enemies. But Hastings feared not for his life, as he had long ago pledged it to the mission of the League. It was what this Frenchman would do to capture his leader that now concerned him, and Hastings feared that he himself would play a part in the downfall of the Scarlet Pimpernel, however unconsciously it was done.

Hastings smiled up at his captor. "Shall I give him your regards, then?"

Chauvelin remained undisturbed by the young man's unaffected air. "If you wish. However, there is no need to write of your present situation, as I've already informed him of it," he remarked carelessly, then placed the wrinkled paper on the small, battered desk in the corner of the cell, along with a crude bottle of ink.

Hastings glanced at the desk. "A pen, monsieur?"

Chauvelin smiled sarcastically. "Surely you can find something in here. You're known for being resourceful, after all."

"Then leave me be, sir."

"Ah, but surely you will need the words to write."

Hastings glared at him, his expression darkening. "You wish me to dictate a message for you, Monsieur Chauvelin?"

Chauvelin chuckled, his eyes gleaming. "The letter is from yourself, a simple correspondence between dear friends." The smile never left his lips. "But you will write what I wish."


	4. Forward and Farewell

A nervous tension wrapped itself about the manor, yet Marguerite Blakeney knew nothing of its presence. The sun struck the bottom pane of her bedroom window, sending the evening shadows dancing across the polished floor. She gazed into the mirror before her, fingering the dark curls cascading about her shoulders. She smiled back at the beautiful reflection, ignoring the sad gleam in the blue eyes staring back at her. With a sigh, she rose slowly to her feet, smoothing her dress with her silk-clad hands. The sun suddenly plummeted from view, casting the room into delicate shadow. Marguerite glided to the door, resting a gloved hand on the doorframe as her eyes rested on the stairs. He would be waiting, surely. She closed the door silently behind her and began to ascend the stairs to the study. The silence about the house pressed around her, reminding her of the past few days she had spent in a strange solitude. She wondered if the same silence still bound his tongue, wordless since the letter had come.

**********

Percy Blakeney stood before the dying fire, a hand gripping the rich mantelpiece, his gaze intent on the last of the flickering flames. Marguerite slipped through the door and crept toward the fireplace, her dress rustling slightly behind her. At once Percy whirled to face her, his eyes reflecting none of the warmth from the fire beside him. He immediately checked himself, his usual unaffected smile lighting up his face.

He strode forward and bent to gently kiss her hand. "Ah, m'dear, how charming you look tonight!" He straightened as the small clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. "My, is it time already?"

Marguerite noticed his rigid stance and the tight-lipped smile he seemed struggling to maintain. His eyes shifted to the doorway and his smile faltered. Marguerite followed his gaze, but the hallway remained empty and dark.

"You are expecting someone, Percy?" she inquired.

Marguerite turned to face him again, but his lazy smile had returned. "Only a small matter of business, m'dear," Percy remarked flippantly, as he offered her his arm. "But as such, it must wait, or we shall be quite late for His Highness's ball."

Marguerite tentatively took his arm and stifled a gasp. Though her husband had seemed calm in both speech and manner, she felt his body tense with nervous excitement, coiled to spring into immediate action at some unknown signal. This could be no mere business that occupied her husband's thoughts, but a secret of greater consequence, which he was striving so earnestly to conceal from her.

Blakeney led her through the grand foyer and was reaching for the door when Marguerite suddenly halted and gazed up at him. "What manner of business upsets you?" she asked abruptly, searching for a clue in his bright eyes.

Her husband only laughed and touched her cheek. "Nothing to trouble your pretty head with, dearest."

Marguerite knew this excuse too well. "Percy, please. What is it?" She could not bear him to keep another secret from her, to continue keeping his silent vigils night after night as he had begun doing lately.

"There is naught to tell, madam." His voice seemed colder, his eyes no longer focused on her, but beyond the front door, where a distant neigh and beating hooves rent the night air. Marguerite felt Percy stiffen at the sound, and her own anxiety grew with his.

"If I may aid you-"

"I'm afraid nothing more can be done." His voice was emotionless as he stood listening to the horse clatter to a halt outside. The front door suddenly burst open and a breathless Andrew Ffoulkes staggered into the rich foyer. His eyes fell on Lady Blakeney, before turning questioningly to Percy. Percy nodded and quietly excused himself, striding swiftly to the privacy of the parlor down the hall, Sir Andrew close behind. Only once they were safely within the dark room and the door tightly shut behind them did Sir Andrew speak.

"Percy, we must hurry. Worse weather is approaching the coast, and we may not be able to sail as planned."

A single candle suddenly flickered to life. Sir Andrew blinked at the sudden light, then at the earnest expression of his companion behind it. "Why, Andrew, 'tis the best news I've heard all day."

Ffoulkes' was puzzled. "What other news have you received?"

Blakeney's face was suddenly grave, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight. "A letter from Hastings arrived just this evening."

"Hastings? How could he-"

"Not alone, surely. He must have been aided." Percy drew the letter from within his richly woven jacket and handed it to his companion. "But there is no doubt that it is his handwriting."

_"Sir, _

_I am to be transferred to a smaller prison on the Rue de l'Agnon on the fourth day from today. There I await trial for treason, then execution. I send you this through my trusted friend, Sir Morris Stanton, and regret that I have not the time to write more. It has been an honor and a privilege to serve. _

_Hastings."_

Ffoulkes' gaze shot to his leader. "Percy! Four days? The man will be killed in three, they will not wait!"

Blakeney was staring at the letter. "Do you know this Stanton fellow?" he asked.

Sir Andrew groaned, exasperated. "Yes, he is a close friend of Hastings, he lives outside Paris. They have known one another since boyhood. But what has he to do with-"

"Everything. Whether he is to be trusted determines if this message is truthful."

"You still doubt Hastings? Has he no honor left in your eyes?"

"We must be prepared for a trap," his chief remarked quietly.

Ffoulkes laughed bitterly. "You suspect him, a loyal member of the League, to be plotting your capture from within his prison walls? For what purpose? Oh, do be sensible, Percy!"

Blakeney closed his eyes, saying slowly, "It is not Hastings whom I doubt, Andrew. Let us not forget our meddlesome Chauvelin."

Ffoulkes froze. "Surely he has not seen this letter. He would have stopped it before it left Paris."

"If he can send one letter, he may send another. He is quite at his leisure to do so." Percy smiled slightly. "But we seem to have little choice but to attempt a rescue for Hastings. After all, his head does not belong to France."

"Very well. Your horse was readied upon my arrival. When shall we leave?"

"Immediately."

"But Lady Blakeney…"

Percy stiffened. A look of pain flashed across his face, and then was gone. "She shall be escorted to the ball or remain here, whichever she prefers," he replied steadily. "I have made arrangements."

Sir Andrew nodded. "Then I shall await you at the stables." Then he turned, unlatched the door, and disappeared from the room. Percy heard Ffoulkes' polite farewell to Lady Blakeney and the closing of the heavy front door.

He found Marguerite seated in an ornate chair in the corner of the foyer. Upon seeing him, she rose and took a step forward. "You do not trust me, Sir Percy?" she asked quietly.

At once he was at her side, her hand pressed to his lips. "Madam, you know otherwise."

"But I may aid you, for I am no spy." The hurt was evident in her voice, as she had inevitably recalled to their minds their estrangement of just a few months ago. A shadow passed over Percy's amiable features, the pain evident in his glowing eyes.

"It is a matter of the League," he replied slowly, fixing her with a earnest gaze. "I cannot say more. I beg you, do not trouble yourself. I shall be back within a fortnight, as safe as you see me now."

Marguerite sighed. She would worry, alone in the grand house, left only to ponder the thousands of possible reasons he might go, always overshadowed by the one punishment that could keep him away forever. A single tear slid down her cheek before Percy bent down and kissed it away. "I shall return, dearest. As always." And with one last look, he tore himself away and strode into the darkness.


	5. The Guest

The plans were made to rendezvous at the Rochford Inn on the outskirts of Dover. As Sir Andrew had predicted, the weather worsened to a ripping gale across the Channel, making crossing impossible until the following day. Sir Percy heartily welcomed the delay, much to the surprise of the four men present. Seated in a secluded back parlor of the inn, Dewhurst, Ffoulkes, Galveston, and Glynde huddled closely around a rough wooden table, a small candelabra casting eerie shadows about the dank room. Percy paced before the window, then stopped to look out over the misty Channel, its coarse waves lashing the shoreline as the storm raged on. The monotonous drone of rain cloaked the men's quiet voices from any prying ear upstairs.

"You say Stanton will join us shortly?" Percy inquired lazily, his eyes still fixed on the window.

Sir Andrew looked up from the shuffle of papers on the table. "It can't be long; he has been in London since he brought Hastings' letter to you yesterday."

"I did not see him, as he did not deliver the message personally," Blakeney pointed out. "But it is no matter, I shall like to speak with him first when he arrives."

Lord Tony gave a rueful laugh. "As do we all, Percy! If he has seen Hastings, well…he must tell us everything about the poor chap."

Their leader turned to eye each of the men solemnly. "We must be cautious all the same, my friends."

Ffoulkes laughed. "Stanton is a true friend! I have met the man on a manner of occasions and his honor is as good as any! We may trust him to lead us to Hastings."

Blakeney smiled at the sound of the unlatching parlor door. "And here may be our good herald of bad news himself." The flickering candlelight revealed a young, dark-haired man stealing into the room, whose shy smile met the gazes of all in the room.

Percy stepped forward. "Sir Morris Stanton?"

Sir Morris's green eyes flashed about the room, taking in the quiet looks of the men, then finally returned to Percy's beaming welcome. "Yes, sir. You are Sir Percy Blakeney, then?"

"Quite, right, my dear fellow." He clapped the young gentleman on the shoulder. "Are you hungry, Stanton? Lud, I'm afraid Sir Andrew has eaten the last of our food. How rude, what?"

Stanton blinked. "Oh, no, sir. I mean, yes. I… eh…no, sir, I am not hungry. But yes, I suppose it was rude, but I care not, truly."

Blakeney threw Ffoulkes an amused glance as he burst out in his usual inane laugh. He turned to the shy guest and led him to a seat beside Lord Tony. "Well then, Sir Morris, we shall now ruthlessly interrogate you,'" he remarked good-humoredly, gesturing around at the present League members.

Sir Andrew leaned forward earnestly. "Stanton, you have seen Hastings?"

Stanton frowned. "Yes, and perhaps it would have been better had I not."

"And why is that?" Blakeney inquired carelessly, pacing about the table.

Sir Morris threw him a despairing look. "He is horribly compromised. They question him relentlessly, or so he says."

"And did Lord Hastings answer them?"

"He told me he has tried to put them off for as long as possible, but his time is running out." He winced, closing his eyes. "For what reason are they holding him? He must hold some terrible secret."

Percy glanced at the faces around the room. "A terrible secret indeed."

Stanton's eyes shot open, looking searchingly at the tall Englishman. "You know of it, sir?"

"Of course not," Lord Tony interrupted quickly. "He only means that it must be something quite serious for Hastings to be treated so harshly." Tony glanced sideways at his leader, who had seated himself at his left. His chief gave him a slight nod, but remained silent, his bright blue eyes scrutinizing the newcomer's face.

Sir Morris seemed utterly puzzled. "Why are so many of his friends gathered here? At this moment?"

Blakeney chuckled. "Lud, man, it takes more than one to rescue an innocent man from the guillotine." He sensed Tony stiffen beside him and heard a low hiss escape his lips.

"Tony," he laughed suddenly. "Could I trouble you to bring our guest some more wine? He must be parched from his journey, the poor fellow."

Lord Tony rose slowly from the battered table and disappeared without a word.

Percy waited a moment, listening intently to the whispered conversation between Ffoulkes and Stanton. Suddenly he rose. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I'm afraid I've forgotten to tell Tony which bottle to fetch," he laughed as he slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Tony was immediately before him. "You must be mad, Percy!"

Blakeney smiled sympathetically. "Does our guest upset you, Tony?"

"Please, do not let him any closer! He is a stranger to us!"

"Yes, but a friend of Hastings who delivered a letter containing information about his location and surely knows where he is now. It all runs in one demmed circle, you see."

Tony snorted. "Yes, it will be the noose thrown about your neck. You cannot tell him any more. We know nothing about this Stanton!"

Percy's face suddenly grew serious. "We cannot deny him the chance to save his friend. The man is as concerned as we are."

Tony sighed in frustration. "Yes, yes, that is plain to see. But can we trust a man based on friendship alone?"

His friend's tone grew cold. "Our League survives on it."

Tony bowed his head, defeated. "Forgive me, I did not mean to contest you, but I fear our betrayal."

Blakeney's face softened, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm certain we can be in no more danger at present. Trust me, old chap. He shall be useful to our purpose." He patted his friend's shoulder reassuringly, gesturing toward the parlor. "Shall we?"

"I must obey your first order."

Percy smiled, waving him off. "I almost forgot about that demmed wine."


	6. Sir Morris Joins the Plot

_**I'm on a roll, what?**_

_**

* * *

**_Lord Antony Dewhurst watched Sir Morris in silence, his stony gaze flitting between the newcomer and the Scarlet Pimpernel. He was puzzled by Percy's refusal to lay down his guard, if indeed he trusted Stanton as he had said. Instead, Blakeney continued his foppish charade, turning the conversation to trivial matters, and away from the terrible dilemma that faced their friend.

"…But I cannot allow you to wear your little French hat, Stanton," the chief was saying. "I simply cannot look upon it."

Sir Morris rose to the challenge. "And why is that, Sir Percy?"

"My dear fellow, how many demmed buckles must one have on a hat? Exactly what do you wish to buckle down?" Blakeney inquired, laughing.

And still Lord Tony stared, disbelieving. What precious time they were wasting with this silly talk! His gaze flicked to Ffoulkes, who was watching the friendly rivalry with keen amusement, as were all the men present. He sighed, but would not interfere. Blakeney was no idiot, and beneath that inane smile Tony could see the brilliant mind scheming even amidst such a simple conversation.

"Ah, but monsieur, it's the highest fashion in Paris these days," the young man protested.

"Then I truly fear for your life in London," Percy replied with a droll smile. "La! Such a hat would warrant immediate arrest."

"You would fare no better in Paris," retorted the good-humored guest. "English cravats! We French have smaller sails on our ships!"

"Sink me! Now I'm afraid we must settle this with a duel," Blakeney remarked with feigned solemnity.

"Very well, sir. But 'tis a shame we have only just met," Sir Morris replied with a sweeping bow.

"My word, Stanton, if you aren't an amusing fellow. Much more agreeable than that demmed Monsieur Chauber-…ah, no…what is it?" Percy furrowed his brow in concentrated thought. "Awkward things, these French names! Chambertin? No. La! He is the very life of our English parties, ha! Such a demmed unpleasant fellow, always dressed in the dullest black! If I could only-"

"You mean Monsieur Chauvelin?" the young man offered.

Blakeney's face brightened. "That's the man! You know him, Stanton?"

Sir Morris seemed puzzled. "Of course, sir. Everyone around Paris knows of him. But I myself have not met his personal acquaintance."

Sir Percy's smile disappeared. "News has reached me that he is responsible for our friend's capture. Have you not seen him in your visits with Hastings?"

"I only met with Hastings twice, but Monsieur Chauvelin was not present," Sir Morris replied earnestly. "Rumor is that he has been detained elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" Sir Andrews asked doubtfully.

"He is in northern France by the last report," Stanton reassured him. "Most likely on some terrible errand from his superiors, the scoundrel. I do not doubt that he was the one who ensnared Hastings."

"So you do not favor your little revolution after all?" Lord Tony growled.

Sir Morris looked surprised. "Why, of course not! Good God, not every Frenchman is a bloodthirsty Parisian, mind you! I do not inhabit those bloodstained streets, nor will I step on them more than I must. I could never support such a movement when they hold my comrade for treason!"

"Treason," Percy repeated flatly, his blue eyes darkening. "That is his crime?"

Stanton grimaced. "It is well known that anyone may be tried for treason in France if they attempt to upset the Revolution." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What Hastings has done, I do not know, but nevertheless the man will go under the blade for it."

Lord Tony shot the newcomer an incredulous look. "Then you believe he is guilty, Sir Morris?"

"What possible crime could Timothy Hastings commit against the French Republic?" Stanton cried. "They may as well arrest him for being English! He's as innocent a man as I ever knew!"

"But does your loyalty remain to him?" Dewhurst continued ruthlessly. "Friendship matters little in Paris these days."

Blakeney shot a glance at Tony, then rested his piercing gaze on Hastings' friend. "We can trust the man's allegiance, Tony," he said quietly, never averting his gaze from Stanton. "Now, my friend, can you see Hastings one last time before he is moved?"

Sir Morris nodded. "The time will be short, but I believe I can manage it."

"Good. Kindly deliver this letter immediately." Percy withdrew a small parchment of paper from his coat pocket and placed it in Stanton's hands.

Sir Morris gave a slight start as he stared down at the note. "The…the seal…" he stammered, his face pale. His gaze shot to Percy, then to the men seated around the table. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Oh God…you…the Scarlet Pimpernel!"

The chief suddenly laughed. "Pray, do not look so fearful, Sir Morris. We shan't kill you."

Stanton blinked, incredulous. "And Hastings? He is a member of your League?"

Percy nodded, his face suddenly grave. "You are bound to oath, Sir Morris Stanton, to keep secret all you have learned this evening. Swear it now."

Morris had recovered and stepped forward eagerly. "Yes, I swear. I am at your service, sir."

Blakeney smiled. "Perhaps you shall soon join our League, my friend." Suddenly, he began to pace around the huddled group of men. "But now to what is at hand! My comrades and I shall sail for France tomorrow at first tide. You are to meet us at the inn La Main D'or in Calais night after next. Trace your steps carefully and remain as unseen as possible. Now quickly! On your way!"

With a low bow, Sir Morris Stanton hurried from the room, and the clattering of his horse's hooves soon faded from hearing.

Lord Tony was immediately at Blakeney's side. "May he prove a friend," he conceded.

"Odd's life, but we are none the worse for him," Percy remarked carelessly, twisting the seal ring around his finger.


	7. Treachery

Immersed in the seething, onlooking crowd, he suddenly heard above the din the distinct rumble of the approaching tumbrel. He knew this was the end, that this was _his _fault. He hadn't stopped it, but rather aided in this treachery. It was selfish, and now it meant the life of his dearest friend.

He suddenly felt the burning gaze on his face and raised his eyes to meet those of his noble leader. His superior stood quietly in the tumbrel, his blue eyes searching his, as if to ask for what reason he had been betrayed. And then he was gone with the others as the cart approached the center of the square.

The onlooker felt ill. Stumbling backward, he began clawing his way through the cheering masses, those vengeful rogues who now shouted for the death of England's most daring hero. He had to escape this festering mob, for he could bear it no longer. In the distance, the guillotine crashed down on the last head from the tumbrel and that was the end of him: his mentor, his leader, and his friend. The man's vision began to blur as he crumpled to the ground with a cry.

Lord Hastings gasped as he abruptly came to, stretched across the side of his shoddy cot. He sat up quickly, still trembling from the recently departed nightmare.

He glanced sharply about the room. The rising sun struck the rusted bars of the cell window, warm color dripping down the rotting walls and splashing across the dirt floor. Somewhere a swallow sang, unaware of the events the morning brought to the famed Place de la Grève. Hastings breathed a sigh. There were no blue eyes to watch him here.

"A restful slumber, monsieur?" a sneering voice inquired, breaking the transient calm of the cell.

Hastings choked back a cry, whirling to face the thin figure lounging in the shadows of the dusty chamber. The eyes mocked him ruthlessly as a sinister smile curled upon the man's thin lips.

"Monsieur Chauvelin," Hastings returned coldly, seating himself stiffly in the chair opposite the French ambassador.

"Word has reached me that your letter had arrived at the home of Sir Percy," Chauvelin remarked quietly, his eyes glinting in the faint light.

Hastings raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing across his face. "Has it, now?"

His opponent remained unruffled. "You are not to be transferred. But I'm sure you already knew that." Chauvelin suddenly slapped a small, worn note onto the table before him. Hastings froze as his eyes fell upon the paper.

Chauvelin chuckled, the wicked smile still playing upon his lips. "An extra correspondence to the Pimpernel, Hastings? How very foolish of you!"

"What has become of Stanton?" Hastings choked, his eyes still fixed on the crumpled letter.

"I caught the traitor smuggling this note from the prison a few days ago. Why you hoped to send it without my knowledge is remarkable!" His smile broadened. "But then again, prison does take its toll on a man's sensibility, I suppose." He toyed with the paper before him. "As for your friend, he is well taken care of, I assure you."

"You killed him," the Englishman whispered, shutting his eyes against the thought.

"Not yet," Chauvelin said simply, his gleaming gaze still focused on the incredulous prisoner. "But I'm afraid this worsens your situation, my friend. I will not have my plans undermined by your attempted warnings."

"What will you do, Chauvelin? Torture me? You have nothing to learn!"

Chauvelin looked thoughtful. "A different sort of torture, I suppose." He suddenly flashed a villainous grin. "You shall accompany me."

"Accompany you," Hastings repeated mechanically, his body stiffening.

"Why, to the Rue de l'Agnon, of course. You wish to meet your beloved leader, surely?"

Hastings suddenly felt ill. He had tried in vain to warn Percy, and now he would witness his treachery. He would watch those blue eyes question his loyalty and would see the disappointment in the face of the man he had so long revered.

"Stanton. Where is he?" Hastings asked shakily.

The Frenchman gave a bark of laughter, his cold eyes dancing. "He is no friend of yours, I assure you, for I have had him in my employ for many months now."

Chauvelin silently delighted in this revelation. He watched the agony course over the features of the Englishman as the reality of his mistake gripped him.

Hastings' senses reeled. He had unwittingly betrayed the Scarlet Pimpernel, just as he had feared.


	8. Sir Percy's Spy

Percy Blakeney sat alone, the door to his room tightly closed. His chair was pulled next to the darkening window, every passing moment casting the room into deeper shadow as the sun made its final descent over the dirty streets. His mind wandered to his beloved England, so far removed from the terror that strangled its neighboring country. But it was here in France that he was forced to witness death upon death by this insatiable Revolution. He felt the gloom overtake him as the sun dipped below the horizon and blanketed Calais in a murky haze.

How many could he have saved? How many _aristos_ had bowed before the guillotine as he himself had bowed before His Highness and enjoyed the gatherings of high English society? Reason reminded him that everyone could not be spared, but the pain stabbed him deeper with each passing thought. Every day he chose to remain in England was a day more innocents died across the Channel. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the windowpane.

Downstairs, the League was discussing orders of business. That is, if such orders of business revolved around fine French wine and bountiful jokes. Blakeney opened his eyes and listened to the mirthful laughter from the silence of his room. He heard a door suddenly open below, followed by a chorus of joyous greetings. A moment had scarcely passed before there was a knock at the door.

Upon entering the room, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was immediately struck by the strange, listless expression on his leader's face. "By God, Percy! What is the matter?"

Blakeney managed a weak smile. "Lud, just a bit fatigued, Andrew."

"And still you sit in here alone!" Ffoulkes' eyes roved about the dismal room. It was rather unlike Percy to seclude himself in such a state.

His companion's smile widened. "I'm certain I can't concentrate in the same room with all that terrible ruckus you are making."

"Well, sir," Sir Andrew flashed a grin. "We wish to discuss our plans with you immediately."

"And they are?"

Sir Andrew looked thoughtful. "Which plot do you wish to hear first? How we are to rescue Hastings? Or what we plan to do to Monsieur Chauvelin afterwards?"

Blakeney laughed, the last of his dark mood melting away. "Zounds, but Chauvelin does deserve his due."

"And Sir Morris Stanton may contribute a few ideas, surely."

A shadow flitted over Percy's face, but was gone before Sir Andrew could take notice.

"Ah, he has arrived then?" Percy asked dismissively, rising from his chair.

"Only a moment ago. He awaits you as we speak."

Blakeney nodded and stepped quietly into the hall, followed closely by Ffoulkes, who shut the door behind him.

*********

"Ah, and how did our little Frenchie fare his trip?" Sir Percy inquired good-humoredly as he joined the company downstairs.

"'Twas a bit rough on my arrival," Sir Morris answered with a smile. "They asked for my head, but I simply refused to give it to them!"

"As well you should," the Englishman rejoined with a laugh. "For we require use of it presently."

"I am at your service, sir," Stanton replied humbly.

"Yes. Well then, have a seat, gentlemen," Blakeney ordered, gesturing to the chairs around a large oak table in the center of the room. He took his seat between Ffoulkes and Stanton and waited for the company to settle. "Our time is short. One mistake and it could mean the guillotine for Hastings."

The air of the room at once seemed to thicken with an irrepressible gloom. Percy sat stiffly in his chair, eyeing the company as if he were measuring each of them for the task at hand.

"We know Hastings is to be transferred in two days to the Rue de l'Agnon in Amiens," Blakeney continued solemnly. "He will be heavily guarded, of course. But it may be that there will be no interference from any higher Committee official, as we are told Citizen Chauvelin is away at present. The prison on the Rue de l'Agnon is small and not as well guarded as the Temple. More revolutionary officials will come soon, however, for Hastings is to be interrogated shortly after his transferal. Our task, then, is to get to him before they arrive."

"Can we not isolate him en route to the new prison?" Lord Tony offered. "It is a lengthy ride from the Temple Prison to the new one. We may have time to pull it off."

"No, it's far too risky," Ffoulkes countered earnestly. "If we were to waylay his carriage, there would be a horrid commotion to be sure. The streets of Paris are the last place we wish to be seen."

"We shall be seen _somewhere_," Sir Philip retorted. "It's to be expected."

"Can we divert them before he leaves the Temple, then?" Tony persisted. "I should think it easier to snatch him in the process of departure, than when he is shut behind lock and key in the new prison."

"We must intercept him upon his arrival," Sir Morris offered quietly.

Percy threw the Frenchman a sharp look. "Ah, Stanton! And how might this work?"

"Hastings is ordered to l'Agnon by some French agent, is he not?" Sir Morris asked the company, though his eyes remained on Percy. "By Citizen Chauvelin, I have no doubt. As he is away, he cannot possibly know of our movements, rather, he will be too late to act! It would be easy to forge his orders and not have them questioned, I should think. Therefore upon Hastings' arrival at l'Agnon and dressed as the guards of such, let us present his escorts with a new set of orders. Orders to send him, along with the other condemned prisoners of l'Agnon, to the guillotine immediately, but under our care. We, of course, deviate the course and make for England as quickly as possible."

"Sink me, Stanton, you are quite the schemer," the chief grinned, his piercing gaze flitting across the faces around the table. "And what do we say to our friend's suggestion, gentlemen?"

"It might work," Sir Andrew admitted, "But have you nothing to add, Percy? Is there no error in it?"

"Stanton knows what he is doing, to be sure!" Blakeney replied levelly. "It matters not where the credit lies, as long as Hastings is safe."

Lord Tony glared at Sir Morris. "Our timing is crucial, and we do not know when he is to leave or how many guards are to accompany him! If we know nothing, this cannot succeed!"

"Peace, Tony," Percy ordered, his blue eyes flashing across at his companion. "There are ways of finding out, to be sure."

"But you cannot spare any of us!"

A sly smile touched Blakeney's lips. "I am sure that our newest companion would be pleased to help in the matter."

Sir Morris started, his green eyes widening. "Me, sir?" he choked.

The tall Englishman laughed as he rose and began to pace around the table. "But, of course! The prison on the Rue de l'Agnon lies in Amiens, outside of Paris. We have tomorrow to make our final plans, and if you depart swiftly tonight, you may arrive there by morning. Find out all you can and report to me at the Hôtel Blanc on the Boulevard Port d'Aval, where you shall find us tomorrow afternoon."

Sir Morris seemed torn, his eyes darting about the group of faces. Finally he nodded. "Of course. If it is your wish."

*******

Blakeney listened intently to the retreating sound of Sir Morris' horse as it galloped madly for Amiens. He leaned his back against the window, fiddling absentmindedly with his eyeglass.

"Surely he will make it by morning?" Sir Andrews asked in a worried tone.

"Oh, he will arrive in double the time, I assure you," was the quiet reply.

Sir Andrew was puzzled by the pensive mood his leader seemed to have recovered from earlier. "And why is that?"

Blakeney gave a rueful laugh. "Because he has double the work to accomplish, my dear fellow. He may be my spy, but he is also a spy against me."

Sir Andrew was utterly taken aback. "Stanton? He is…Oh God, Percy! But I did not know!"

Percy patted his companion's shoulder with a chuckle. "S'faith, Andrew, but I did." He turned and laughed again. "Begad! Tony! You look as if you wish to kill someone!"

"A couple of Frenchmen come to mind," Lord Tony hissed, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

"But Blakeney!" Sir Andrew was positively white. "How…how-"

Sir Percy was pacing again, twisting his eye lense carelessly around his finger. "Aye, but a couple of clues gave the poor Sir Morris away. First, Chauvelin would watch Hastings night and day! How could he let such a revealing letter slip past his notice? He must have had some influence in its writing, and must have threatened Hastings to write it. The fact that Stanton was the courier of this letter is also suspicious. And second, it is well known that Citizen Chauvelin is _not_, in fact,detained elsewhere, as he has been seen at the public executions in Paris this week."

"Damn these meddlesome French!" exclaimed Sir Andrew. "Surely you have an alternate plan to this trap?"

"Of course, my dear fellow."

"But are we still to carry out this Stanton's plan at the new prison?" Tony inquired.

"As best we can." An amused look sparkled in his chief's eyes. "But it may be a bit awkward for us, as Hastings will still be locked in the Temple Prison."

Ffoulkes exchanged a glance with Lord Tony, then turned to his leader incredulously. "How do you know this?"

Their chief's smiled broadened. "Because there is no prison on the Rue de l'Agnon."


	9. Stanton's Vigil

_**Here's to hopefully saving Baroness Orc from "a COMPLETELY boring day" :)**_

_**

* * *

**_A sense of duty was the last thing Sir Morris Stanton desired at present. His hasty flight from the League's lodgings had left him torn between the two leaders who required his aid and his treachery.

The moonless night rushed past his galloping horse, and still he urged it faster. The murky French landscape droned on, but Morris' mind was painfully focused on the dual mission ahead. There was nothing on this lonely road to distract him from the choice his conscience demanded he make. With a groan, he reined his horse to a slower pace to consider his path.

The Scarlet Pimpernel, from what he had heard and saw, was a respectable fellow indeed. Stanton had found his admiration of the amiable Englishman grow with every kind gesture that he showed him and with every daring plot that he discussed. But Stanton's duty as a Frenchman was held steadfast by that ruthless Chauvelin, who had so threatened him into his service. Whether it was selfishness or fear that fueled his treachery, Sir Morris knew not.

With a sudden shout he spurred his steed to run faster, racing toward the sleepy French town more swiftly than before.

******

"You really plan to kill him," he growled, glaring at his superior from across the table.

"But, of course, my friend! What would I do otherwise?"

Sir Morris' green eyes flashed in the dim candlelight. "You spoke of him as if he were some horrendous villain! Some rat to the Republic!"

Citizen Chauvelin let out a barking laugh. "Oh, but he is! A traitor to every principle of our Revolution! With every plan he makes, he is defying the necessary processes of France! This is your country, too, Monsieur Stanton."

"But not my Revolution."

Chauvelin's dark eyes gleamed as he slowly adjusted his sable hat. "Your life, then."

Sir Morris gritted his teeth. "What of my friend, whose safety you promised?" he persisted.

His companion's sly smile was unsettling. "He will go free as long as your loyalties remain uncompromised."

Chauvelin's questioning gaze was met with an obstinate look from his lackey. "I remain loyal to the Republic," Stanton replied levelly.

"Good man! Now, you said they plan to meet at our little rendezvous in two days?"

Sir Morris' gaze was concentrated on the flickering candle before him, his attention diverted by its subtle radiance. "Yes, but he knows, Chauvelin," he replied absently.

The French ambassador cocked his head to the side. "He knows what, Stanton?"

"Of your little trap. He must! He is always sending me away before the others. There is something he wishes me to not know!"

Chauvelin's laugh echoed in the small, dusty room. "Very good! It wouldn't be worth the trouble otherwise!"

Sir Morris snapped out of his stupor. "You _wish _him to know?" he inquired, incredulous.

"I'd be damned if he didn't!" his companion rejoined, his thin lips pursed into a cruel smile.

Stanton fixed Chauvelin with a steady gaze. "Very well. And Hastings will be free to go as he pleases?"

"As soon as your work at the Temple Prison is finished," the Frenchman snapped, his gloved fingers drumming the wooden table.

"What am I to do there?"

Chauvelin folded his arms across his chest with a patronizing smile. "Why, some of his League will be there, of course."

Sir Morris searched his companion's face with an earnest gaze. "How would you know of this? _I _knew nothing of it!"

Outside, a dreary rain began to lash the windowpanes as the morning hours fast approached. Yet the night reigned on, with no hint of light to relieve this darkest of vigils. Chauvelin took no notice of either light or darkness, but kept his unwavering attention on the bewildered man before him.

"It's all a little game with our English friend," Chauvelin replied simply. "He guesses my move and I anticipate his."

Stanton nodded stiffly. "What do you wish me to do?" he repeated coldly, his hands clenched into tight fists.

Chauvelin leaned forward, the gleam from the candle dancing in his dark eyes. "It's quite simple, Stanton. I shall send some of my guards to accompany you, so do not think yourself clever if you try anything! As for your English acquaintances, when they make themselves known, you are to kill them without hesitation."


	10. The Final Resolution

_**Allow me this last interlude.**_

_**

* * *

**_As if the very clouds endeavored to predict the League's success, a morning storm brewed menacingly to the southeast of town. Even now, Calais began to feel its approach. The wind shrieked through the narrow alleyways as the black skies tumbled over the rooftops and settled with ominous gravity over the quiet city. Even as the ripping gales forced the last street urchin to shelter, a strange gathering of horses and men remained in the tiny courtyard of the inn La Main D'or.

"Damned French weather!" Lord Antony Dewhurst was shouting over the howling gusts, his eyes following his leader's sorrel horse as it picked its way amongst the broken cobblestones.

Sir Percy laughed from his mount, and reined it to face his companions. "La! But I shan't have it any other way! 'Twould be to demmed easy!"

It had been a cruel night. The courier Blakeney had sent to follow Stanton had returned the following morning, with news that the green-eyed Frenchman had remained in Amiens only a short time before heading south at breakneck speed. Percy had anticipated further treachery from his newest acquaintance, but this disappearance complicated matters more than he wished. He took it in stride, however, and laid new plans for the rescue of their most unfortunate friend.

Sir Andrew spoke up from his mount as he reined it closer to the gathering group. He threw Blakeney a questioning glance before surveying the darkening skyline. "It is certain that he will be in Paris, then?"

"Of course not, Ffoulkes! He made for Spain!" Sir Philip retorted, jerking the last of his saddlebags into place.

"Oh, do shut up, Glynde!" Galveston snapped as he leapt on the back of his great bay and pulled it alongside Dewhurst. "It's a fair question!"

"God help us if we can't speak as friends!" Ffoulkes rejoined bitterly. "None of us like this change of plans any more than you do."

Blakeney's gaze shifted from man to man, watching their uneasiness and dissention grow with every idle passing second. An insufferable gloom began to suffocate the company as the thunder finally crashed over the empty streets of Calais and the wind died in its midst.

Lord Tony steadied his startled horse with a firm hand. "A fine mess this Stanton fellow has gotten us into!" he growled, fixing the man on the sorrel horse with a knowing gaze.

Sir Percy suddenly laughed in spite of it all, a sound the League had not heard for nigh on two days. "Odd's life, Tony, but aren't you still the skeptic! I did not deceive you, m'dear chap, when I assured you that this Stanton would be useful to us. All there is left is to try, for we can do no more than this. Trust me one last time, my friend."

"Zounds, but it shan't be the last time, Blakeney!" Tony replied gallantly, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His companion said nothing, but swept his suddenly stern gaze over the gathered group. Dewhurst blinked, his lips falling into a puzzled frown. Something was not right. "Percy…" he began slowly.

Blakeney nodded to Sir Philip, who swiftly mounted his horse and brought it to stand beside Lord Tony's gray gelding.

"Well, then, gentlemen," Sir Percy announced with a rueful smirk, "May we make it through this demmed French weather to rob Madame Guillotine of her prize once again." His face suddenly hardened with utter resolution. "Courage, my friends, if this is to be Hastings' final hour. We can grant him this much, and pray it will save him."

Lord Tony watched as Blakeney, Ffoulkes, and Galveston separated from the courtyard and began trotting for the main road. He fought his growing uneasiness, and brought his horse alongside Blakeney's to take his leave.

"We meet in Paris, then," he asserted anxiously. Sir Andrew cast a worried glance at Tony, who missed none of its gravity. Dewhurst started, shot a look over to an equally puzzled Sir Philip, before choking, "For God's sake, Blakeney, what did you not tell us?"

Sir Percy straightened in his saddle, gazing down at his friend with a melancholy smile. "I told you everything you need to know, m'dear fellow. Now, off! Before you're monstrous late for the changing of the Temple Guard. Hie!" With this, he cracked his riding crop on the flanks of Dewhurst's horse, spurring the gray gelding into a frenzied gallop. Lord Tony settled into the rhythm of his horse and rode on without so much as a glance backward. His chief had spoken, and he must obey. Sir Philip Glynde in turn spurred his horse after Dewhurst, and the two men disappeared into the gathering storm over Paris.

Percy nodded wordlessly to his companions, and the trio kicked their mounts into full speed on the road to Amiens, Blakeney leading, his gaze ever forward, his jaw clenched with final resolution.


	11. A Traitor Among Traitors

Sir Morris Stanton kept his focus on the storm-ridden horizon, almost oblivious to the two officers riding close beside him. They had spoke nothing to him from the start, but he could feel their eyes occasionally studying his movements for any sign of hesitation. They had been delayed numerous times given the weather, and this was the longest stretch they had ridden as of yet. On this lonely length of road, Stanton was left to ponder his newest mission, and to convince himself that his work was for a better good than the lives of a few Englishman.

He immediately reproached the thought. His memory had drifted back to the meetings he had witnessed of these daring fools and the pride and devotion with which they treated their animated leader. He had felt none of the warmth, however, even amongst that jolly gathering, for his orders had come from a much colder and demanding source, from one who did not inspire obedience out of love, but from terror.

He shook this thought off as well, his gaze flicking to the guards galloping on either side of his horse.

This was his duty for both his friend and the Republic, be it at the expense of a handful of men he barely knew. Were they not spies against France, after all? This was one order he could not turn back on, not for all the idealistic Englishmen in the world. He was a traitor among traitors, and as such his oath to them was meaningless.

* * *

Hastings had begun to feel the ever-tightening noose about his neck with every passing day, and his aching thoughts turned to his comrades. What the League would think of him now? Granted, that first farcical letter had been necessary to appease Chauvelin, but Hastings had planned to warn Percy by another note soon after.

But that Stanton! His best of all friends in France, and for so long! What had brought him down to this treachery, to betray his confidence for a mere order of the Republic? Was it bribery? Or had he been a friend at all?

The door to his cell suddenly swung open, and two travel-weary soldiers swept in, one announcing tersely, "A man has requested a private interview with you, citizen."

Chauvelin? No, he would require no introduction, no permission to torment him yet again. Hastings' gaze turned swiftly to the door, little distance from where he sat. He bit back a cry as a figure stepped cautiously forward. The soldiers left Sir Morris Stanton behind them, shutting the cell door with a resounding clang that echoed up to the rotting rafters.

Hastings was on his feet at once, crouching as if he would attack this visitor at any moment. "You scoundrel!" he hissed.

Stanton had been striding toward him, his face noticeably relieved at the sight of his friend. At these words, however, he came to an abrupt halt. "Hastings, I-"

"That letter was to my companion, but you reported it to Chauvelin! Dog you are, and no friend of mine!"

"Yes, the letter to the Scarlet Pimpernel," Stanton replied in a whisper. "But, I had-"

"What?" Hastings asked incredulously, his eyes narrowing. "You've read its contents?"

"No, but I have met him," Sir Morris continued standing quietly, his gaze directed to some scene in his memory.

"Impossible! You couldn't recognize him in a crowd of men!"

"No, but by his name," Stanton sighed as he collapsed into the chair facing Hastings' empty one. "As it is, Sir Percy Blakeney."

Hastings choked, but Stanton continued, "I am acquainted with his band of friends, and yours too, I suppose, for you are one of them, I've learned. Ffoulkes, Glynde, Galveston, Tony. Ah, that Dewhurst chap didn't like the look of me, certainly."

"You…you _spy_!" Hastings spat, his rage brought to an utter boil. "Blakeney has thrown you out, and you've come to me to confess, you cur!"

"He let me go," Stanton corrected solemnly.

"Blakeney is no fool, Morris! He would never allow-"

"Oh, but he did!" the Frenchman countered vehemently. "Of course, he knows the plot's amuck, but he did not apprehend me, as you seem to wish he would have."

"And where is he now?" the prisoner demanded.

"I couldn't possibly-"

"Speak, you dog! You seem to know of everything else!"

"He sent me away, to prepare to intercept you in Amiens," his friend rejoined calmly.

Hastings barked a bitter laugh. "Oh, but I am to stay here in the Temple! Ha! He has played you for the fool you are!"

"Citizen Chauvelin does not seem to think it a terrible situation in the least."

"Ah, yes, I've become aware of your attachment to that fiend's plans. To think! You are one of his lackeys, a rat of the Republic!"

Stanton stood suddenly, fixing his friend with a pleading look. "I had little choice, Hastings! It was all for your rescue, if the reason must be known!"

"By betraying my friends and my chief, you hoped to help _me_?"

"I did not know them to be your companions! I hardly knew of that English spy, the Scarlet Pimpernel! You cannot blame me, then, for working against those traitors!"

Hastings grimaced. "Then why are you here, Morris? For you now know I have undermined your precious Republic many a time." He sighed as he turned away from his distressed visitor. "But, then again, you've betrayed me as well, have you not?"

Sir Morris Stanton gave no reply.

* * *

But when the two guards returned to the Englishman's cell, Stanton at once felt uneasy. He had caught the glare of those eyes before. But they were not of the men who had ridden beside him in escort to the Temple.

It couldn't be.

Stanton gave a cry, stumbling back from the soldier who was now striding swiftly toward him, his eyes steeled and teeth clenched in long suppressed fury.

Reaching out, the soldier caught Sir Morris by the collar, gripping his cravat tightly in his fist and pulling him forcibly to the ground. Stanton landed with a groan, then became distinctly aware of a boot grinding itself into his neck and back and thus pinning him painfully to the floor.

"Greetings, Hastings, ol' chap!" the soldier suddenly laughed, his boot still firm on the fallen Frenchman. "You're a pretty picture in here, what?"

The prisoner's eyes widened in recognition and he strode forward with a grin. "Why, Tony, you devil! Where on God's earth did you come from? And Glynde, my friend!" he added, nodding to the other soldier. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "What news of the Percy?"

Dewhurst at once looked troubled, his blue eyes clouded with some distant memory. "We…don't know," he faltered. "He has given his instructions, but as to his own plans, Glynde and I know no more than you, my friend."

Hastings nodded, his gaze shifting to the man sprawled on the floor. "And did he send instructions for this man, Tony?" he sneered.

Dewhurst smiled as he withdrew a sealed scrap of paper from his threadbare uniform. "Well, yes, the chief did send him a bit of a letter."


End file.
